


Ashes to Ashes

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Drabble, Implied Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dust to dust, beauty on your skin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

Mike says, in art school, they tell you about butterflies. Mike says “They’re beautiful, but they’re fragile.”

Chester looks up briefly from where he is kissing the inside of the emcee’s thigh to sigh deeply and roll his eyes. “Shut the fuck up,” The singer tells him angrily. He sits up and stares at Mike impatiently, says “I’m not here for the good of my health.” He shifts forwards on his knees, bracing his hands on Mike’s knees and swallowing the emcee’s erection in one go.

With a gasp, Mike throws his head back and threads his fingers through Chester’s hair. “Yeah,” he sighs happily, “but you’ll still get paid regardless of what I say so you might as well listen.”

Chester presses his tongue against the vein of his friend’s cock and wonders how the fuck Mike is still able to speak. The emcee says, “If you touch a butterfly’s wings they turn to dust.”

Chester bobs his head one last time, removes his mouth and starts fisting the length in front of him. He mutters, “The butterfly or the wings?”

A low moan and then “The wings. You can touch them and you get dust on your fingers.” A quiet, needy whimper, “If you look at the dust you can see the pattern of the wings on your hands. Touch them too much and they die.”

“What’s the point of butterflies anyway?” Chester asks, flicking his tongue gently over the head of Mike’s cock.

Mike, his eyes screwed shut in ecstasy, he gasps out “You want the meaning of life? Don’t blow an artist.” Mike always said that art school took the beauty and mystery out of everything; he always said that after you leave there is nothing but measurements and labels. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Chester speeds up the motions of his fist, stroking Mike’s thigh with the other hand. “So...you touch a butterfly and get its wing dust on you? That’s pretty sick.”

“Ashes to ashes. Beauty on your skin.”

Maybe it’s because Mike is so close to coming that Chester doesn’t understand what that means. One final squeeze of the emcee’s erection sends him over the edge, his back arching and his mouth opening in a silent exhalation. Chester sits back on his haunches and stares at the sweat-damp face of his best friend as he wipes come from his hand onto the carpet. He waits patiently for Mike to come down from his post-orgasm high before he puts out his hand, palm facing the ceiling, silently begging for fifty bucks. The younger man arches his back, pulls his pants back up over his hips and fishes two twenties and a ten out of his back pocket, says “Butterflies are beautiful but they wear away until they are nothing but symmetrical piles of dust. The most beautiful powder you’ll ever see.”

“Naw,” says Chester, smiling faintly at the money in his hand, “I can think of a more beautiful powder.”

Perhaps he expected a lecture from Mike but, as usual, the younger man surprises him and simply whispers “Yeah,” he says, “I thought you might be able to.”


End file.
